


Fallen Lances

by cathouse_mary



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Duty, Friendship, Gen, Working Relationships - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-26 03:25:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/646047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cathouse_mary/pseuds/cathouse_mary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The past and present, though Minerva's and Rufus' eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fallen Lances

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Hoggywarty Christmas fest on LJ, this was for featherxquill who wanted friendships, working relationships and close non-romantic/sexual relationships. Because I am not on Pottermore, I was unaware that Minerva had been retconned. So, in this story I went with a history developed from JK Rowling’s statement that Minerva McGonagall was a ‘sprightly seventy’ at the opening of ‘The Philosopher’s Stone.’ This would put her birth year at around 1920 instead of 1935, and made her old enough to be an auror during the war.

# Fallen Lances

##  A Soldier

He is that fallen lance that lies as hurled,  
That lies unlifted now, come dew, come rust,  
But still lies pointed as it plowed the dust.  
If we who sight along it round the world,  
See nothing worthy to have been its mark,  
It is because like men we look too near,  
Forgetting that as fitted to the sphere,  
Our missiles always make too short an arc.  
They fall, they rip the grass, they intersect  
The curve of earth, and striking, break their own;  
They make us cringe for metal-point on stone.  
But this we know, the obstacle that checked  
And tripped the body, shot the spirit on  
Further than target ever showed or shone.  
\- Robert Frost

~

There came a point in an auror’s life when the hand was not as steady and the eye not as quick. There was a point when the mind lingered momentarily over the situational complexities and ethical questions of one’s response ,instead of firing off a hex. There was a split instant where one thought not of subduing the blaggard but of actually getting the charges to stick.

And in that instant the battle was lost.

You got a desk job.

You worked hard, because now there were people under you. They were your people, and that meant they looked to you for leadership. It was your job to keep them out of bad situations, parse the intelligence, to never send them into something you wouldn’t dare yourself. It was your job to lead them by example, and to be the person out there putting it on the line with them. That bad thing about that was when you’d done the job as you ought, some chair-borne pillock would come along and promote your sorry arse yet again.

Minerva knew it well.

And only hoped that Rufus would somehow, someday, forgive her for what she was about to do to him.

As she looked around her office, she realised that she was already saying her farewells to a code of conduct and a routine that had defined her since she was seventeen years old. Minerva had not personalised the place when she was warded, preferring to assume the office and the traditions that had stood since St. Ulrich’s founding of the order. Consequently, the place was a mishmash of furniture from different eras, assorted carpets so old that the original designs had been worn to the warp, and time-darkened wood.

“Madam.” Eleanor Rosier’s voice came from the mouldering trophy troll head mounted on the wall. “Rufus Scrimgeour has arrived.”

“Very good, Eleanor. Please send him in.”

Time to get on with it.

~

“What in the HELL do you mean, ‘Head of Office?’” Rufus Scrimgeour demanded of his superior. “Are you pulling my leg or have you gone and lost your mind, madam?”

Rufus was not normally insubordinate, but the circumstances were extreme. He’d been summoned to what he assumed to be an arsechewing, and had been somewhat prepared for that. 

“I’m retiring, Rufus. Gawain nominated, I seconded, and Alastor was the first with his hand up.” Madam Deputy Minister looked at him over the tops of her spectacles, a smile quirking her lips. “The other section heads convened, argued, called each other nasty names, and in the end you were the only one all could agree upon to head the office.”

It was ridiculous. It was a prank. It had to be. “You were my training agent, madam.”

“And I did a cracking good job of it.” McGonagall smiled. “If I do say so myself.”

How often had he stood in this office, in front of this desk, in front of this woman, and taken a ballocking up one side, down the other, and all around the town? In the seven years that Rufus had been in the rank and file, and the three he’d headed the Dark Arts investigations section, Rufus had never really thought about the top spot. There were too many long-serving aurors ahead of him.

“It does feel as if you voted me in when I left to use the loo.” Yes, a certain degree of resentment could perhaps be discerned. He’d just managed to get everything operating the way it ought! “I don’t really want to move up right now. Dorcas Meadowes is turning into a credible second, but she’s not ready to be a section head for another few years.”

The Deputy Minister opened a drawer on the massive desk and removed a bottle of whisky, a pair of horn cups, and a pack of Green Man cigarettes. “I know. You’ll be able to keep an eye on her. Sit.”

That’s when it sank in. Rufus found himself not so much sitting from invitation, but from cumulative shock.

And from that shock surfaced the reason that Minerva McGonagall would choose to retire.

“Is Malcolm doing so poorly?” Rufus asked as she poured the whisky. Malcolm had two Orders of Merlin from the war, and the wounds that earned them also gave him an early medical retirement. “I didn’t know.”

“We’ve kept it quiet, but we’d like to have whatever time remains to us.” She handed Rufus the cup and tapped her own against it. “ _Laing may yer lum reek._ 1”

“ _Mòran taing_ 2.” The whisky burned a warm path down his throat and made Rufus’s eyes sting. “He was... is... a good man. Bugger all, madam, but I am tired of burying good men.”

“So are we all and that, Rufus, is why I nominated you.”

She raised the bottle in inquiry, and Rufus was surprised that the bottom of his cup was dry. “Please. It’s very smooth.”

“MacPhail’s 1930.” McGonagall poured, explaining further. “You’re not vainglorious, and you care about your people first. You’re not running about thinking that the sun shines out your bum. You’re not going to put them in harm’s way just to get a spot under the Prophet’s Banner. You took a decimated section and turned it into something top-flight even before we desked you.”

“Marlene McKinnon-” He might still get out of it.

“Is happily heading up her laboratory. Nice try, however.”

Bugger. “Alastor has more seniority.”

“And is a self-admitted loose cannon.” They tapped cups again. “He said once if he ever had a desk job, his personality would split asunder from not being able to stand himself.”

“I must admit that I have no idea how you handle him. Especially after the Lucerne Incident.” Rufus tapped out a Green Man and lit it with the tip of his wand, savouring the spiced Turkish tobacco. “Some days it’s all I can do not to hex him six ways from Sunday.”

“That’s classified. Not even the Minister’s mum’s getting a peep at that one, laddie.”

It said something that the deliberately-capitalized Lucerne Incident had been immediately been classified and the file handed over to the Unspeakable’s Unfinding Section. He was likely imagining the twinkle in her eye – likely a reflection from the whisky.

“Madam?”

She was lighting her own cigarette. “Hm?”

“Why not Gawain Robards?” It was a legitimate question. Gawain Robards had been Under Minister since Rufus’ fifth year as a full auror. “No offense, but he should have been next in line.”

“If all it took was seniority, yes. We’re moving into new times, Rufus, and there are already new challenges popping up.” McGonagall tapped the ancient wood of the desk with her index and middle fingers as she always did to punctuate her points. “In addition, there’s been a resurgence of interest in Grindelwald. You’ve been dealing with some of that, but at higher places in society there’s been an open advocacy of his policies from people well-placed within the Ministry itself.”

“So it’s not just a bunch of inbred berks that make the Gaunts look wholesome?” It was appalling, and an affront. “Who’s advocating, and are they doing more than advocating?”

“That has to wait until after you’re warded, but yes. There’s more to it.”

“Again, why not Robards for the hot seat?”

“He’s a natural second, and he knows it. Gawain will back you with everything he has, and has never wanted the top spot for himself.” Tilting her head back, she exhaled the smoke in perfect rings. “He nominated you, remember?”

“I’ll try to do you all proud, Deputy Minister.” And he would. If they had this much faith in him, Rufus vowed to repay it.

~

There was a place in the Highgate Cemetery. Despite being in the middle of London, little sound but the breeze in the tall plane trees disturbed the ears. Set into a bank, facing a small lake, was a semicircle of basalt-faced niches.

Minerva paused, laying her hand on the plaque that read ‘Malcolm McGonagall, November 11, 1911 – January 6, 1954.’

So many names here were engraved into her heart as into the stone. Neither time nor tempest could wear them smooth. She patted Malcolm’s marker softly and rested her cheek on the sun-warmed basalt.

“Minerva.”

She turned and there he was, the solid old dun warhorse, leaning on his cane. “Gawain. You found them.”

It was his last act as Head of Office, and the thing Gawain had vowed to see done before he would step down. He was always a man of his word, and would have sooner sawn off his wand arm than leave an auror behind. It took him ten years, but Gawain brought Rufus and Alastor in at last. They might be only the mute bones of the men who had died, but they would have their last honours.

He silently offered his arm and she took it, walking with him to where a pair of small pine ossuaries lay on a catafalque before open niches. A piper and drummer stood to one side, waiting. There could have been a huge Ministry production, with the Wizengamot and endless speeches, but there was something about this that was far more appropriate and dignified.

For a moment, Minerva could almost hear Alastor’s opinion of such Ministry foolery. It made her heart a little lighter. Bending, she pressed a kiss to the nameplate. “Miss you, you mad badger. Miss you so.”

Minerva remembered the night in her office, when Rufus had told her that he was tired of burying good men. She was tired of burying good folk, too, and hoped this would be her last time doing it.

“Rufus. Brave laddie.” A kiss for him, too, with bitterest regret at his death and the manner of it. “I’m so sorry.” 

Gawain rested a hand on Rufus’s ossuary, then on Alastor’s, speaking perhaps only in his heart before nodding to Minerva. “Ready, Madam.”

Minerva turned to the piper and his drummer. “Play them home, please.”

The pipes droned with a mournful cry, and the notes of ‘Dark Isle’ began to sound in the cold morning air.

~

*1Scottish vernacular. “Long may your chimney smoke.”  
*2Scots Gaelic. “Many thanks.”


End file.
